The press conference was scheduled for noon.
Elara stood in the dressing room, fingers smoothing the fabric of her jacket, not because it needed it—but because grounding herself mattered. The mirror reflected a woman who looked composed, deliberate. Not hardened. Not hidden.
Dominic appeared behind her in the glass.
"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "I can handle the questions."
She met his eyes in the reflection. "That's exactly why I do."
He nodded. "Then we do it your way."
"Our way," she corrected.
A small smile. Agreement sealed.
---
The room buzzed with low conversation and camera checks. When they stepped onto the stage together, the noise softened—attention snapping into focus. Elara felt it like a tide and stood firm.
Questions came fast.
"Mrs. Moretti, are you being pressured—"
"No," Elara said calmly. "I'm being asked. There's a difference."
"Is this marriage strategic?"
"It's intentional," she replied. "And that's all I'll say about my private life."
A reporter tried again, sharper this time. "What about allegations from a family member—"
Elara held the mic steady. "Family can hurt you," she said evenly. "That doesn't make them right."
The room went quiet.
Dominic didn't interrupt. He didn't rescue. He stayed present—shoulder close, posture aligned.
When it ended, the applause was brief but real.
They left together.
---
In the car, Elara finally exhaled. "I didn't shake."
"You didn't," Dominic said. "You led."
She looked out the window, city streaming past. "I thought facing the world would feel like exposure."
"And?"
"It feels like air."
He reached across the console, fingers brushing hers—brief, grounding. Enough.
---
That night, the house felt different again—not lighter, not heavier.
Open.
Elara wandered into the music room she hadn't touched since arriving. The piano lid gleamed. She lifted it, pressed a key. The note rang clear and honest.
Dominic watched from the doorway.
"I didn't know you played," he said.
"I forgot," she admitted. "Some parts of me went quiet for a long time."
She played a few bars—unpolished, sincere. He crossed the room and leaned against the piano, listening like it mattered.
When she finished, the silence stayed kind.
"Stay," she said softly.
He did.
Not as a guard.
Not as a shield.
As someone choosing the same room.
Outside, the city kept moving. Inside, the door Elara had chosen stayed open—wide enough for truth, for risk, for whatever came next.